Keeping the Right Amount of Distance
by G.A. AnimeFan4
Summary: Implied 1940's AU / Squad Levi centered. / He had no intention of growing close to them.


_A/N: Weird idea I had.  
**1940's AU**, in which Squad Levi...reincarnates? The POV should be easy to guess;) No Eren, sorry guys, I wanted this to be strictly Eld, Gunther, Auruo, Petra, and Levi, because they were the original team.  
This takes place *mostly* in American during and after WWII. I apologize for any grammar mistakes I happened to miss._

_Starts off kinda crazy and mellows out for the rest. Last names are changed for a reason, but first names are the same to not cause confusion:)_

_I do not own Shingeki no Kyojin or the cover image, just my fanfic!__ I also appreciate reviews, but please no fire^_^_

* * *

**_~Keeping the Right Amount of Distance~_**

* * *

.

.

War truly was a disgusting experience, a poor excuse for mindlessly stealing human lives.

And no matter the lifetime, he never could escape it.

This was a different battle scene, however. Sticky smoke strangled the once blue sky, painting it a monotone gray. Gunpowder and a thick, scarlet liquid stained the ground, dirtying his fingers as he crouched to the floor. It sickened him.

Making a break for it, the man – no, he was merely a boy – pushed his legs as fast as physically possible, leaping the final length and slipping, sliding into the ditch ungracefully. Thumping against the mucky ground, he leaned his back against the mound behind him, gasping for a brief intake of air. It tasted like shit.

The atmosphere shrieked in the agony of the continuous far off and not so far off explosions that erupted, be them gunfire or bombs or the sound of bodies being thrown back. The soldier glanced to his left; another drafted teenager, hardly old enough to fight properly, reloading his rifle with shaking hands and tears in his shell-shocked eyes. Then to his right; another deceased...someone who didn't even have a name that one cared enough to hear. People were shouting. Incoherent. Irritatingly so.

And soon they stopped.

And new voices took their places.

The soldier scurried to his feet, unfazed by the amount of grime on his body that would normally have bothered him. Someone grasped his shoulder, tightly, from behind.

He turned to find his partner staring at him, brown eyes intent and focused. His blonde hair, turned to a dish-water color from the nasty conditions, falling from the ponytail he so often wore beneath his helmet. Where that helmet was could have been anywhere in this hell. The long hair he refused to cut because his fiancé back home liked it that way. The long hair he'd managed to keep secret from the higher-ups. The long hair that had a streak of blood through it.

The soldier scowled at his friend – the only one he had been willing to make here – and waited.

Eld Thompson was his name. A young man from America, like the other soldier, who was unwillingly forced to join the war. He was a respectable, respectful person who valued many things, and who swore he'd return home as soon as peace was restored and marry the woman he loved.

The soldier believed everything Eld said. Whether it sounded impossible or not, the soldier put his faith in the guy.

Perhaps it was out of habit.

"This is just another step," Eld stated loudly over the rumbling of the battlefield. "We'll survive this. Don't worry."

The soldier would have smiled – except he never did – but instead offered a curt nod and told Eld not to die. He said that dying wouldn't be much of a "step" and told him that his fiancé was waiting patiently for him to come home. He told him that dying was simply not an option.

And Eld smiled – something the soldier just couldn't do – and promised him that he would not lose his life until he's old and he's damn ready to. And the soldier believed him, habitual or not.

Eld left when he was called, and the soldier returned to his duty as a sort of terrain sniper, sprawled on the dry yet soaked grass. He took aim, firing, over and over and over again.

Yes.

No matter the lifetime, he will never escape war.

And he will never escape the pain it brings.

The sputtering and coughing engine of a plane was in the distance, and growing closer. He ignored it at first. After all, that sound was not uncommon. It was a dangerous noise, but the soldier had other things to worry about. If he ran every time he heard such a thing, the high-ups would have him destroyed. Not that he gave a second a thought to those charismatic morons. The soldier had seen more effective work many times and was hardly impressed by how the Americans were handling this battle.

Drafting.

To think he had to obey such an idea. An idea that had crushed so many lives ruined so many families.

But suddenly that plane sounded close; it snuck up on everyone, those who couldn't run. The soldier peered over his back, eyes wide in disbelief.

The force of the multiple bombs scattered across the landscape threw him back a few meters. Eventually flattening himself, he shielded his head and neck with his arms. Small debris scraped across his skin and through his clothing, knocking against his helmet. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, and his leg had gone numb after a brief burning sensation. He couldn't move it.

Not all men can die a memorial death. In the end, everyone is the same in war.

The soldier couldn't move, his leg far too damaged and in pain to even try. He was so close, but too far, and he wanted to shout out to him, but his throat was clogged with soot. From where the solider was, he could see Eld.

And Eld was alive.

Years after the war, after the soldier would finally return home, two years after Eld did, he'd learn of the fate of his friend. He'd learn of the therapy and the wedding that had been put off, perhaps even cancelled, because Eld could no longer stand at the alter. He'd learn of everything that his comrade had gone through on the road to recovery; but he would not visit him. Would not jeopardize the life he had remaining.

Would not appear with his one bad leg to taunt a man who'd lost both of his.

.

.

_The walls weren't particularly interesting._

_But they were rather easy to stare at. Memorizing every divot in the solid material, every crack, every inch of shadow and glare from the sun sneaking through the window._

_But when you eat every meal alone, what else is there to do?_

_What else is there to do, but to scowl at the coffee maker he no longer uses?_

.

.

The World War II veteran specifically chose his lawyer when he came home.

"I want to know in detail what exactly happened."

"I've lived on my own since before the war started," he replied, face revealing nothing. "I'd rented out an apartment from my landlady, who was kind enough to accept the little money I had at the time. Eventually, I was able to give her a regular rent and if I missed a payment, I'd do odd jobs like cleaning up her place." He glared at the wall. "However, I recently found out that while I was gone, she passed away and the town reclaimed my home as their property. I'm here to ask for my rights back to it."

"And if you don't receive these 'rights'?"

"I will be homeless."

"Did you join the war willingly?"

"Drafted." He had to refrain from calling him a dumbass or something similar by this point.

The lawyer slowly smirked to himself, an unexpected reaction. "I think you have a solid case here. That is, if you can work up a way to pay the town for you living there when we win it back."

The veteran frowned deeper. "Hopefully that can be arranged." The lawyer gave him a curious look. "I won't go so far as to lie to you," he explained. "I have no idea what the future will bring, after all."

The suited man smiled. "At least you're honest."

Before this, the veteran had looked through his options for attorneys. And he'd chosen wisely; according to his intuition. On the list of names and profiles and pictures, the former soldier made his decision.

An experienced but younger man named Gunther Smith.

"I think I can get you back your apartment," he said, standing. "I'll let you know any further information as soon as I get word."

"Good then," the veteran nodded, getting to his feet as well. The fact that he was leaning on a cane didn't go unnoticed.

As he left, Gunther looked this guy over once more. He had obviously been drafted at a young age and had miraculously survived. His hair was shaved on the back of his head, but left longer at the top. It was black and appeared almost greasy, but wasn't. Yet, what left the lawyer interested and puzzled was the person's eyes. They were pin-pointing and dark, tired-looking with the furrow beneath them.

Gunther came to the conclusion that it was a result of experiencing the hell of war at an earlier age than one should be made to.

He also vowed to get this man his home back.

And he did just that.

Within three days, the temperamental veteran had his property back. And if he were to find a job soon and work up some real money, he'd own the place for good.

To say Gunther wasn't proud of him would be dishonest. And lawmen don't do that.

Once the case was over and everyone was up and leaving the court room, Gunther followed his client outside. He watched as the veteran leaned against the wall of the building, an expression of disinterest on his face. His cane balanced next to him. The lawyer said nothing; simply observed at he pulled out a cheap lighter and ignited the end of a cigarette. After indulging in a long drag and gazing up as the smoke dispersed into the air, he turned to the lawyer.

He offered one, but Gunther declined politely. "Haven't smoked since the Yankees lost their last game. I try not to give myself a raspy voice, mind you."

The veteran seemed almost amused. "I suppose I outta thank you." He took a few steps forward, careful to keep the tobacco-based thing behind his back where Gunther didn't have to deal with the smell. He held out his free hand. "It was a good run."

Gunther smirked, grasping and shaking it. "See you around. Take care."

"We'll see."

The lawyer stood silently as the veteran left after grabbing his cane, pondering just what he'd meant by those words of his. _'We'll see'_ didn't sound all that comforting.

But then, that guy didn't have a very 'comforting' personality, either.

Not that Gunther minded.

.

.

_He built four graves on a grassy spot by a canal._

_He may not have been able to save their badges, but this was the least he could do. Their names were engraved in the stone by his own hand with the knife he kept in his boot just in case._

_Not once did he cry in front of them. _

_But he did offer a salute, and thank you._

.

.

Having advanced a couple of years since he'd come back from the war, he was no longer a boy, but a legitimate man. One who could legally live alone for once and do what he damn well pleased without judgement unless it happened to be illegal. Not that he did illegal shit like that. He wasn't planning on returning to the thug life. Even if he hadn't done that for...who knew how long?

The world sure was a different place.

The veteran didn't greet those on the streets. They didn't acknowledge him, either, though, so it was fine. It was a small town; everyone knew it was best not to get on his bad side. Everyone knew he wasn't very social.

Everyone knew he'd survived the war.

But just barely.

He still kept his cane, though walking was much easier now. He kept it for good measures, to be sure he didn't make a fool of himself and fall or something ungraceful like that.

That damn thing got him in trouble every once in a while, though.

Staring off at nothing in particular, the veteran didn't even notice the man walk by until the foot connected with the cane, causing the man to stumble and jerk in pain. When the veteran stepped back to take a look, he saw it was a police officer. He had the button-up coat of their uniform and the wimpy firearm and shiny badge and bulky, stupid hat. His hair was a dirty blonde and he was tall.

"Ouch~!" the cop straightened, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket. The veteran lifted a brow curiously as the clothe was stained red. "Gotta stop biting my damned tongue," he muttered around the metallic liquid.

The veteran rolled his eyes. "Nice job." His words were laced with a heavy sarcasm and betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. "You good?"

The cop glanced over at him, hardly amused. "Zip it." His words were bizarre sounding from the new injury. It probably hurt his pride more so, though. He turned to glare at the veteran. "You have some attitude, you know that?"

The shorter of the two just shrugged, barely, and replied, "I get the same vibe from you."

The policeman must have found it amusing, because he laughed out loud. He held out a rough hand, and the veteran clasped hold of it, shaking like men. The blonde played off of what he'd been saying a moment ago. "But I tend to get along well with guys like you."

"I met you- what? A minute ago?" he muttered flatly.

"Sure," was his response. The cop smirked in an arrogant fashion, a way that made the man he'd just met want to smile - but of course, he never did such a thing. So he only received a straight-lined mouth and dark eyes that looked oh so tired. But the cop wasn't fazed yet. "Auruo Roberts. You new to this town? I don't believe I've seen you before."

Now what Auruo didn't know was that these words of his hit hard, harder than he could ever know. But the veteran didn't even wince, didn't even _blink_. Just looked on, staring straight through the man before him. His chest hurt and felt congested. Stifling a cough, the former soldier gave the flatfoot his name, not expecting much of a reaction.

And he was right.

Auruo Roberts' smirk refused to fade, still not quite satisfied.

The veteran proceed to explain his situation with lack of detail; that he was doing odd jobs until he could land a solid one. That he had served in the war and was living in an apartment now. That he had briefly lived in the area before being drafted and was now back for the time being. They were a plain sight, two guys chatting on the street like every other little group. One practically towered over the other, though it was clear who was the more dangerous to piss off.

"Hey, I'll see you around," Auruo finally said after a short conversation.

The veteran nodded curtly. "Don't get your ass kicked, people like you are targets." He was referring the fact that he was a policeman, and Auruo found it funnier than expected.

"Take care of yourself, with that bad mouth of yours."

As they were beginning to walk away, the man with the cane halted momentary, saying one last thing to the other, who paused as well. Neither looked behind them; neither uttered another word after. Just continued walking and pursuing separate lives; exactly how the veteran wanted it to be. And exactly how he, somewhere deep in his walled-up core, dreaded it to be. But they never glanced back.

Met in the future? Maybe. Who can say?

"Don't lose yourself out there."

.

.

_He died while fighting._

_Something he'd never escape, no matter the lifetime._

_He remembered falling. But in the end, it hadn't been painful. In fact, it'd felt as though many hands were catching him, stopping his descent, embracing his sins, and departing to let him die in peace._

_A soldier doesn't want an audience. Though Eren didn't accept that._

.

.

Petra Reynolds loved her job.

She worked at a small café on the corner of the block downtown. When the men had gone to war, she and a few other women had opened the place to support themselves or their families or both. It was a fun job and kept her on her feet with finances. The two cooks and the manager were friendly people who treated her well, which was a nice bonus.

As a waitress at the little diner, she was used to seeing the same customers. It was a petite town with a population that wasn't all that impressive. It was often that Petra greeted the exact same people one morning as she did the next.

But today was different.

She'd seen him around town a couple of times, but never had he entered the café.

He was of shorter stature than a lot of males, but she was still below his height. His hair was black and shaved from the bottom to halfway up. She didn't know his name, and he had hardly talked since entering the room.

He sat at a booth towards the corner. And he stared out the window for most of the time, too.

He looked...kind of intimidating...

And for a woman in that day and age, that wasn't usually a good thing.

But Petra swallowed any unease she felt, brushed off the blue fabric of her attire (a knee-low dress and apron), and approached him. She was sure to smile and speak in a light, friendly way, like she did with anyone else. He placed his order in a low tone and refused to look at her directly. It was somewhat awkward, but Petra accepted that he wasn't much of a conversationalist.

It only took one glance to tell her that he'd served in the war.

The veteran wore a white muscle shirt tucked into the green pants of an army uniform, which met high, leather boots. He had a cane leaned against the seat next to him, and Petra assumed he had a bad leg. Perhaps it even bore scars; after all, it was a blistering hot day and he was wearing long pants like it was normal.

For the rest of the time she checked up on him, the only thing he really said was, "Your window is cracked. Outta fix that." Naturally, he'd chosen the one spot that revealed the tiny crack in the glass. She rolled her eyes but mentioned they were planning to have it mended soon.

He ate his fill and took a moment to hang around briefly before paying up.

But something about this man intrigued Petra.

It was strange, but for the entire time he'd been there, she hadn't once allowed her mind to wander from him. Why? She had no idea. But the thoughts kept ragging at her and eventually, she was fed up with it.

Yet Petra also wanted to stay neighborly, nice, not _rude_.

A "perfect" strike for discussion came around as she was picking up his check and turning to leave him be. Something caught her eye and she gazed at it a moment before being interrupted.

"What?"

She was startled to find that he was actually _looking _at her. After all, he hadn't all morning.

His eyes were pin-pointing, dark grey, almost blue. It amazed her for a second, until she got a hold of her manners. "I'm sorry!" she quickly stated, dipping her head apologetically. "It's just that..."

He waited.

Petra smiled brightly. "I happened to notice the tattoo on the back of your shoulder." He raised a brow. "And...I was wondering what it stood for. I don't mean to spry, I was only curious-"

"The Wings of Freedom," he muttered, getting to his feet stiffly. "That's what they are." The mark was only about an inch long and was suddenly shielded from Petra's vision as he faced her. "They symbolize not only independence, but a better future and promising the lives of others." He seemed to lose his train of thought then, and hurriedly added, "Guess that sums up the American spirit."

She beamed up at him. "I suppose that answers my question. Thank you." Then she held out a hand, after shoving the tray she had under her arm to get it out of the way. "My name is Petra. May I ask yours?"

They shook, though for some reason, she felt his hand shake in hers. Shiver. Then it went limp at his side, reaching for his cane absentmindedly. She was surprised when their eyes met once again, and he spoke in that almost quiet, yet firm voice of his.

"Tell me, Petra..." He trailed off, as if gathering his words together. "No...never mind." She tilted her head curiously, wondering if something was wrong. She was about to ask when the veteran said, "Forgot what I was going say. Well shit."

Petra laughed a little, signaling that it was perfectly fine. "You seem pretty talkative suddenly."

"Talkativeness is my personality," he insisted, moving toward the door while leaning heavily on his cane. The ache was acting up terribly and he needed to move it.

"Thanks again for stopping by, ace," she dipped her chin respectfully. He nodded once and exited the diner.

Petra frowned to herself, debating furiously in her head for a minute, and called out after him through the doorway. He was already a few yards away, but he glanced back, seemingly uninterested. "You never did tell me your name! And I make it my place to know the names of my customers!"

He scowled irritably, considering that.

And he kept walking away.

But not before he granted her the answer she'd been seeking.

"Levi. Nothing more, nothing less."

.

.

_He had no intention of growing close to them._

_He would not attempt to get friendly with them in this lifetime._

_He would not endanger them in this lifetime._

_He would not be responsible for their deaths in this lifetime._

_..._Not again_._

.

.

_~Finish~_


End file.
